


on the shore of wistful sea

by lunapark



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama & Romance, First Time, M/M, Reincarnation, Sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunapark/pseuds/lunapark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy is blond, his clothes made of fine, rich fabric; fitted and clean and not torn or missing buttons like Merlin's own. His nose has a bump and his teeth are crooked and he is as stupid as he is brave, Merlin thinks, like a character out of the stories his uncle tells him every night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the shore of wistful sea

**Author's Note:**

> A few years ago, I watched _The Piano_ by Jane Campion in my university film class and the music/score changed my life (okay that sounds pretty dramatic lol but bear with me here). The title piece "The Heart Asks Pleasure First" is what inspired this little ficlet ([this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bScAHGih6_4) is one of my favorite piano versions of that song, ever), and the title comes from a [lyrical rendition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF04p4oO7lI) of the song with the same name. Also, although this fic is very different than the movie, one of the scenes is directly inspired by a scene in the film.
> 
> As a side note, I am so in love with how Colin looked in [this scene](http://kissthemgoodbye.net/movie/albums/Testament%20of%20Youth/ToY_0091.jpg) as Victor Richardson in ToY that I needed an excuse to write something like this, tbh.

* * *

**_i_**.

 

The carriage ride to the Pendragon estate is long and hot, the clattering of the horse's hooves like a nail being driven through Merlin’s head. The carriage jumps and another wave of nausea greets him. His gut churns from the bit of cheese and bread his mother had packed for his journey, and he closes his eyes, trying to calm his stomach. He falls into a restless sleep, dreaming of his mother's tearful goodbye, his sickly uncle, and the money—

("I will not sell my only son into a marriage with a Pendragon—"

"It has already been done, Mother.")

—that he traded himself for.

Merlin wakes when the carriage gives a violent lurch, emptying the contents of his stomach out the window.

**•**

_"You're nothing but a filthy little bastard," Valiant tells him with a shove. Merlin loses his footing and falls into a pile of mud, blood boiling as Valiant laughs and spits at him. He balls his shaking hands into fists and tries not to cry._

_"Leave him alone."_

_The boy is blond, his clothes made of fine, rich fabric; fitted and clean and not torn or missing buttons like Merlin's own. His nose has a bump and his teeth are crooked and he is as stupid as he is brave, Merlin thinks, like a character out of the stories his uncle tells him every night._

_Later, Merlin will learn three things:_

_his name (Arthur),_

_the color of his eyes (blue),_

_the sound of his laughter (home)._

**_ii_**.

Morgana is even more beautiful than Merlin remembers, with her large, billowing skirts and sea green eyes that look as if they are hiding a secret. Merlin fumbles, calls the woman he is going to marry "ma'am" when they are reunited, and Morgana laughs, the sound tinkling like music from a jewelry box. She takes his arm and leads him away from Uther and his cold, prying gaze.

(Merlin does not think of Arthur.)

 

 _ **iii**_.

 

"Arthur visits the seashore every day to watch the ships pass," Morgana tells him over tea, though he hadn't asked. "He is like an old sailor who longs to see the waters again. Or a sea nymph. He is insufferable."

Merlin hates the sea; it has always made him unbearably sad for no reason he can think of. When he was a little boy, he would watch it ebb and flow and begin crying until his mother lifted him up and carried him far away from it.

Now he dreams about it. A funeral pyre. A wooden boat. A magic sword.

A dead king.

"I didn't know he sailed," Merlin says, lamely.

Morgana smiles, brings her teacup up to her mouth and leans in conspiratorially, as though they are old friends sharing a bit of gossip and not three days away from their wedding. “Not _well_ , I assure you.”

"I can sail well enough, dear sister of mine."

Merlin startles at the sound of his voice, crisp and clear and sure; to hear it aloud after all these years instead of in the safety of his own mind makes his heart seize up, his stomach twist into a tighter knot than the one Morgana wears her hair in. Arthur brings with him the smell of sea and sand, salt and sunlight. His bare feet are covered in sand, trousers rolled up to his knees and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shirt hanging open and sticking to the broad slopes of his shoulders, the hard lines of his chest, the width of torso; his hair is in disarray, falling damp and messy over his forehead, but it is his eyes that Merlin notices first, blue as the sky on a summer’s day, as the sea Arthur is so fond of.

When he looks at Merlin, he smiles wide and carefree, like a child who has just been given a present.

His teeth are as crooked as Merlin remembers them.

 

 ** _iv_**.

 

They dine together that evening, the four of them pretending that everything is normal even though it is anything but.

Uther stabs at his meat, then turns to Morgana and demands, "Why do you wish to marry a homely boy like this?" He points at Merlin with his cutlery, and Arthur tries to interrupt him with a quiet "Father—," but Uther ignores him and goes on: “You will bring nothing but shame on this family by marrying such a low class urchin.”

Merlin stares down at his plate, hands in his lap, feeling like he had when Valiant had called him a bastard at the age of nine. Unruffled, Morgana swallows her bite of food and dabs delicately at her mouth with her napkin before replying, "With all due respect, I do not think you are in any position to lecture me on shame, _Father_ ," and leaving Uther to turn an alarming shade of purple.

The rest of their meal is finished in silence.

**•**

_Merlin is fourteen when he kisses Arthur under the safety of a tree during a torrential downpour, their lips wet and slippery, eager and clumsy with inexperience. He leans his forehead against Arthur’s afterwards and counts the freckles around his eyes until it gets too blurry to see._

_It is their first kiss. It is their last kiss._

 

 _ **v**_.

 

The next day, the weather is milder, and Arthur takes them out to the shoreline with a picnic basket in tow. The cool sea breeze cards through Merlin's hair as he stands just out of reach of the water and looks out at the waves crashing against the rocks. He pushes down the heaviness in his chest and unfolds the blanket they brought along with them for Morgana to sit on. She smiles at him thankfully and stretches out on it, removing the pins from her hair and letting it tumble down her back like spilled ink on parchment.

(Maybe he could grow to love her.)

There is an old piano farther up the shore and Merlin cocks his head at it, looking at Arthur. A wordless question.

Arthur shrugs, hands on his hips. "It was abandoned," he yells over the roar of the waves. "It's been there for as long as I can remember."

Merlin pushes the hair out of his eyes, grinning, face salt-sticky from the water and wind. "You don't play, m'lord?" he teases.

"He is musically inept," Morgana acknowledges, wrinkling her nose.

Arthur blushes red at that and Merlin laughs, loud and bright. He watches Arthur begin to chase his sister around the shore like they are children again, kicking up sand as he goes.

It takes some time, but eventually Merlin is able to tune the piano well enough to play it. He could never afford lessons, but he had learned to play by ear after moving to the countryside to live with his uncle. Now, his hands begin to play of their own accord, fingers gliding back and forth over the keys, seemingly possessed. A lump settles in his throat as he recognizes the tune—his mother's favorite.

When he looks up, Morgana has tossed aside her shawl and hiked up her skirts to dip her feet into the water, laughing and twirling as a ballerina would, her dark hair fluttering in the wind like silk ribbons. Merlin watches her for a few moments, smiling absently, before his eyes wander to—

Arthur, framed by the sunlight, his hair as soft and golden as newly spun thread. Arthur, sand smeared on his cheek and eyes lost in a sea of crinkles, like a lonely ship (a wooden boat) being swallowed up by the currents (down to its watery grave). Arthur, face split in two and smiling at Merlin like he is the sun and moon and stars when it is he who is the miracle.

(He cannot love her.)

 

 _ **vi**_.

 

When they return to the manor, their clothes are dirty and wet, Merlin's shirt and trousers waterlogged from when he had tripped and fallen into the sandy water, Morgana laughing kindly and Arthur smiling down at him, exasperated and fond as he hauled him back to his feet, hand lingering between his shoulder blades—too short to mean anything, too long to be accidental.

Morgana retreats to her room to wash and change before supper, leaving Merlin alone with Arthur for the first time since his arrival. They glance at each other hesitantly before Arthur chuckles a bit, looking down at his sandy clothes.

"I should change as well, before Father mistakes me for a sand monster."

Merlin tries to laugh, but his throat feels as gritty as the rest of him, and the sound is hoarse and strained. "I should—" Abruptly, he falls silent, flushing in embarrassment. He has no extra clothes to change in to. What little he brought with him is all he has to his name.

"You're as skinny and bare-boned now as you were when we were children, but I'm sure I have something that will fit you," Arthur says lightly. Eyes twinkling with mirth, he adds, "Otherwise, you can borrow one of Morgana's silk dresses."

Merlin huffs out a laugh, and without thinking, gives his shoulder a hard shove. He regrets it instantly, but Arthur only grins at him and says, "Come on then, Merlin," in that familiar way of his.

As expected, Arthur's room is large and lavish—bed linens a rich burgundy, headboard carved from the finest wood—but it's the paintings adorning the walls that draw Merlin's eyes in. Most of them are of the sea; one shows a lone ship capsizing in the stormy sea, the other a pair of twin sailboats in front of a watercolor sunset. Merlin lingers on the one painting that does not match the others, of a man dressed in a blue toga kneeling down by a clearing, surrounded by a group of water nymphs that watch him raptly, longingly.

"'Hylas and the Nymphs,'" Arthur says before Merlin has a chance to ask, "by John William Waterhouse. It's not the original, obviously, but an impression. Have you heard the story?"

"No."

"It's from the Greek myth of Jason and the Argonauts. Hylas was an Argonaut warrior, Hercules' servant, and his"—Arthur's voice catches—"lover. During his quest for the Golden Fleece, Jason's boat stopped on an island and some men were sent to gather water and food. Hylas was among them, and he found a clearing where he could fetch some water. But before he could leave, the water nymphs rose up and circled around him, drawn in by his beauty. One of the nymphs reached up to kiss him."

"And?" Merlin prompts after Arthur falls silent.

"That's where the tale ends," Arthur says, shrugging helplessly. "Hylas was never heard from again. Some versions of the myth say that Hercules searched long and far for him, but he was never found. It's believed that the nymphs pulled him down into the water."

Merlin stares at the nymph with her hand on Hylas' arm. "That's awful." He looks at Arthur, frowning. "Why would you want such a tragic painting hanging in your bedroom?"

A tiny smile crosses his lips. Arthur steps closer and with his forefinger outlines Hylas' nose, the shadow of his cheek, the curve of his ear. He follows the dips of his shoulder blades, the length of his right arm down to his elbow. Merlin catches his own reflection in the glass alongside Hylas'. His heart stutters in his chest. 

"Because," Arthur says, almost too quietly to hear, "when I look at him, I see you."

 

 _ **vii**_.

 

 ~~_Arthur,  
_~~~~_I'm sorry I left all those years ago without saying goodbye. I never meant to_~~  

 ~~_Arthur,  
_~~~~_I marry your sister in two days' time, but I just wanted to tell you that I_~~  

 ~~_Arthur,  
_~~ ~~_I wish it was you that I was m_ ~~

~~_Arthur,  
_~~ ~~_I will never forget the way your hair looks in the sunlight, or the sound of your laughter, the shape of your eyes, the_ ~~

_Arthur,_  
_Your heart is my home.  
M._

 

 _ **viii**_.

 

Merlin means to leave the note in Arthur's room while he is out by the sea, but Arthur intercepts him before he can; and though they are alone in the house, Uther gone away on urgent business and Morgana in town to visit the shops, he closes the door when Merlin's voice breaks during his apology, then locks it and lets Merlin sob against his shoulder, note crumpled in his hand.

"I love you," Merlin confesses, a whisper.

"I never stopped," Arthur returns, softly, surely.

It's easy to kiss him then, to rest his hand on Arthur's cheek and feel the stubble rasp against his palm, to let Arthur clutch at him like a drowning man lost at sea. Merlin licks the salt from Arthur's lips, tastes the wind and sand and sea, and chases after more, slipping his tongue inside Arthur's mouth, where he is sweet like jam and honey. Arthur whines softly in the back of his throat and Merlin wants to hear that sound again and again, for the rest of his life.

Arthur begins to walk backwards to the bed ("Do you—?" "Yes, God, _yes_ —") and they strip off their clothes as they go, shaky hands fumbling with buttons and belts, pushing off shirts and trousers until they are finally skin to skin, pressed close together on his bed with Merlin astride Arthur's thighs. Merlin brushes kisses to his brow, his temple, the space between his eyes; then mouths along his jaw, follows the sharp angle of it with his tongue, and Arthur breathes out a hoarse, broken sound, his fingers digging bruises into Merlin's hips. Arthur nudges Merlin's cheek with his own and offers his mouth, which Merlin takes, hungry and greedy, and they kiss until they are gasping for air, cocks heavy and hard between their bodies.

"I've never—," Arthur pants out, staring up at him with round eyes, so sweet and pure that Merlin aches with it.

"Neither have I," Merlin says. Arthur's tightly wound body relaxes at that, and Merlin allows himself a small smile, because Arthur has always been a bit selfish. He takes Arthur's hand in his own and laces their fingers together, tells him, "I want you to take me."

"Merlin," Arthur tries, but Merlin shakes his head, his tears turning Arthur's face into a blurry, misty mess.

"If this is all we get to have, then let me have this memory of you. _Please_ , Arthur."

Arthur pulls him down, kisses the tears from the corners of his eyes and strokes along the rise of his cheekbone, so tender and careful that Merlin must blink away tears again. "Show me how," Arthur murmurs.

There is a vial of oil on Arthur's bedside table that Merlin manages to grab, pressing it into Arthur's free hand with a soft plea. He uncorks it, then tips it over his fingers, and Merlin takes his wrist, guides his hand back between his cheeks, to the soft furl of his hole and urges the tip of Arthur's finger inside.

"Merlin, are you certain—"

"I've touched myself at night, thinking of you," he admits, and Arthur groans as though he is in pain.

They work Merlin open together slowly until they are both delirious and half mad with lust, panting into each other's mouths and skin, and then Merlin reaches behind himself, slicks up Arthur's cock, and guides it inside his body as Arthur stares up at him wonderingly, reverently. The pain brings tears to his eyes again and Arthur thumbs them away with trembling hands, kisses the center of his chest and whispers endearments that make Merlin's heart swell. When Arthur is fully seated inside him, it feels like finally coming home, like being reunited after years of separation.

Merlin moves his hips slowly, watches as Arthur tips his head back with a muttered curse and bares his throat for Merlin to latch onto; then faster, harder, as the burning stretch gives way to pleasure-pain and Arthur thrusts up to meet him, his cock brushing over something that makes Merlin's thighs quiver, makes him cry out.

"Ar— _Sire_ ," he gasps.

(It makes no sense, and yet it does.)

Suddenly, Merlin is on his back with Arthur on top, thrusting inside of him without abandon like a man possessed, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead and eyes wide, frantic as they stare into Merlin's own. Merlin cups his face, runs his hands over his shoulders soothingly, and Arthur slows his pace, kissing an apology to his wrist. Merlin sighs his approval and lets his legs fall open a fraction more, opens his mouth when Arthur leans down to kiss him and lets him dip his tongue inside.

It could last seconds more, minutes or hours. Merlin loses himself to the sounds of Arthur's panted breaths, the hard pounding of his heart, the warm, solid weight of his body atop his own. His pleasure crests without warning, and he muffles a shout into Arthur's shoulder, nails drawing parallel red lines down the smooth expanse of Arthur's back. 

Merlin isn't sure if he just imagines the " _mine_ " whispered into his skin as Arthur spills inside his body.

 

 _ **ix**_.

 

Later, sticky and sweaty, tangled together and dozing between slow kisses, there is this:

"When did you know?"

"Know what?"

( _a smile_ )

"That you loved me."

"When I was nine and you defended me against Valiant."

( _a pause_ )

"And you?"

( _a heartbeat_ )

"Before I knew what the word 'love' even meant."

 

 ** _x_**.

 

Merlin does not sleep the night before his wedding.

The ceremony will be small and private, with no guests outside of the immediate family and a priest, Uther too ashamed that his daughter has chosen to marry a man without a penny to his name. Merlin prefers it this way; it will be easier to pretend it isn't real.

He lies in bed curled on his side, one hand stroking the pillow on the opposite side of the bed, the way he had stroked Arthur's hair while watching him sleep. There is a dull ache between his thighs, sharper when he clenches his inner muscles, but Merlin relishes the pain, a reminder of what they will always share.

Merlin rises before the sun, puts the blade to his face like he does each morning and shaves, leaving his skin raw and tender. He will not get dressed, not yet, not when it is still dark and he can avoid it, and decides to take a walk instead, dressed in his worn sleep shirt and trousers.

"Arthur is gone."

His heart stops at the sound of Morgana's voice. He looks at her stupidly, mouth hanging open like a fish.

"Morgana, I— What—"

She rises from where she had been sitting in the parlor room, candle in her hand, and seems to float towards him like a ghost, long hair framing her white face, lips pressed together in a thin line. He wonders if she has been there all night.

"Arthur is gone," she repeats, eyes searching his. "Go find him. Go to him."

Merlin shakes his head, breathing fast, head spinning. "B-But the wedding, Morgana... How do you know that— Why would—"

"I don't love you, Merlin," she interrupts. "Not the way a woman is meant to love her husband." She smiles kindly and takes his hand. "Not the way you love him, or he loves you."

Merlin thinks he may faint, his pulse pounding in his temples, hand sweaty against the cool, dry skin of Morgana's own. He breathes out the only thing he can:

" _Why_?"

"He is my brother—as sweet as he is foolish, too easily trusting and too easily hurt, sometimes daft but never unkind. He is nothing like our father." Her eyes glisten in the candlelight. "He deserves happiness in this life. As do you."

"As do you," Merlin tells her, and a tear slips down his cheek. "But my family, my mother—the money, I-I can't just..."

"I'll see to it that they are taken care of," she promises, clasping his hand tighter. "You have my word, Merlin. Now, please, go find him. Before it's too late."

Merlin brings her hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it, then her forehead. "Thank you," he says. "I'll never forget this."

Morgana smiles her secret smile and watches him leave. 

**•**

_"What if we ran away together?" Arthur asks, head in Merlin's lap and a blade of grass between his lips._

_Merlin laughs and brushes Arthur's hair off his forehead, decides to humor him. "Let's say we did run away. Where would we go?"_

_Arthur opens his eyes and Merlin sees his own face reflected back at him._

_"Anywhere."_

**•**

Merlin runs.

He runs as fast as he can, scraping the soles of his bare feet and stumbling like a newborn foal in the dark. He runs with heaving breaths and dry, burning eyes, against the onslaught of the summer wind. He runs to the only place he can think of: the seashore.

When he makes it there at last, the horizon is tinged golden-orange with the sunrise and Arthur is at its center, dressed in a simple shirt and breeches. Like he is a  _sailor_. Merlin laughs as he starts to cry, hysterical with relief, and drops down to his knees on the sandy bank. Arthur turns his head slowly to look at him, hair tangled from the wind, and Merlin has never been so in love. 

Arthur crouches down in front of him, throws the satchel Merlin hadn't noticed until just now carelessly aside. "You're meant to be getting married, idiot," Arthur points out.

"You're meant to _not_ be running away, prat," Merlin returns, sniffling. 

Arthur reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a folded letter with _Merlin_  written on top of it in Arthur's neat, crisp penmanship. "I wouldn't have left without saying goodbye," Arthur says, and although his voice is gentle, Merlin stings as though he has just been slapped. 

("Were you upset with me for leaving?" 

"Yes, but then I missed you so much that I couldn't be upset anymore.")

Merlin tells him about everything Morgana had said, and Arthur listens silently, then smiles at the end of it, looking at Merlin with damp, red eyes. "I can't stay here any longer, Merlin. I have these dreams, sometimes—about a different place, a different time. They pull me towards the sea. Perhaps her waters have the answers that I so desperately need."

"I won't lose you again," Merlin chokes out. "I  _can't_ , Arthur."

Arthur reaches for his hand just as Morgana had done. "Come with me, then. Let's sail far away from here."

Of the hundreds of questions he could ask, Merlin chooses this one: "Where would we go?"

Arthur touches his cheek, his eyes bluer than the sea.

"Anywhere."

 

_**∞** _

 

He finishes signing  _Your loving son, Merlin_  at the bottom of his letter when the ship gives a sharp jolt, ink bottle tipping over and spilling all over his trousers. Merlin dabs at the stain uselessly with a handkerchief before he relents, heaving out a sigh and deciding that he will have to purchase a new pair at their next stop. He leaves the letter to dry next to the one for Morgana and ventures out of the cabin and onto the ship deck, where Arthur is standing at the wheel, scratching his head and squinting up at the masts. His hair is just a little bit longer now, and brushes the back collar of his shirt.

"You owe me a new pair of trousers, _Captain_."

Arthur whirls around, dazed and wearing a slightly stupid expression, and Merlin smiles in spite of his annoyance. Arthur recovers quickly enough and his gaze falls to the black ink stain on Merlin's crotch. A slow grin spreads across his face, and he reaches for Merlin, tugging him close until they stand nose to nose.

"A shame," he murmurs, sighing. "I suppose now you'll have to take them off." 

Merlin snorts, then laughs breathlessly as Arthur starts to nose up the side of his neck, pressing his lips to a bruise he had left there earlier. "You are insatiable," Merlin accuses without any real bite. They had woken up with the sunrise, but stayed in bed until late afternoon, lost in each other's bodies; that had become the norm these days. 

"Ah," Arthur says, smiling. He buries his fingertips in the curly hair at Merlin's nape. "You love me for it." 

Merlin holds Arthur's face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over the dark circles under his eyes. The dreams are almost a nightly occurrence now that they are on the water, haunting Arthur like a ghost, and Merlin worries about him so much that he has little time to dwell on his own—of Uther, sitting upon a royal throne; of Morgana, dressed in shimmering green gowns; of Arthur, wearing a crown atop his head, a red cloak over his shoulders.

(There will be time for that, later.)

"You're wrong," Merlin says. Arthur frowns, confused. "I love you for many reasons."

"And I love you," Arthur tells him, with a sureness that never fails to make Merlin's breath catch, "for many more."

The wind sprays them with saltwater as they kiss. Merlin will never enjoy the company of the sea, but he has learned to live with it; because here, in the warm circle of Arthur's arms, he is home at last. 

**Author's Note:**

> The beach scene was directly inspired by [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfpHj1lC5Yk) from _The Piano_. :) Also, apparently Colin Morgan really _is_ an ageless wonder because [Waterhouse totally painted him as Hylas](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bd/Waterhouse_Hylas_and_the_Nymphs_Manchester_Art_Gallery_1896.15.jpg). 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
